


to help and to hold

by impossibletruths



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-15 20:12:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19303000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossibletruths/pseuds/impossibletruths
Summary: Eliot needs a date. Quentin’s a good friend. Like, a really good friend. Like–– what’s the step that comes after really good friend who goes on fake dates with the guy who flirts with you around the clock and really kind of only opens up to two people and one of them is his platonic soulmate and the other is you? Quentin’s that sort of friend.written for queliot week 2019





	to help and to hold

**Author's Note:**

> for queliotweek day 4 (free day!) I’m rolling back to day 1 with some fake dating cause I can and also I missed it whoops. major shoutout to the mods for organizing this!
> 
> set like, vaguely in some timeline/au where a) time works sort of sensibly and/or b) the Beast doesn't fuck shit up immediately

When Quentin makes it back to the Cottage after his last final, free from the obligations of higher education for like, an entire blessed month worth of holiday, Eliot is pacing a groove between the couch and the stairwell, practically stalking across the room. The few Physical kids lingering on campus have taken refuge in the corners of the Cottage, far away from the roiling cloud of Eliot’s bad mood.

Quentin, without an ounce of self-preservation instinct, drops his bag on the table. “Hey.”

Eliot grunts, so clearly whatever’s gone wrong is somewhere higher than fashion emergency but not so high as the mortifying ordeal of being known. Quentin wonders briefly where Margo is. This is usually her realm of expertise.

“Everything okay?” he tries, and Eliot stops his pacing to whirl around on him. His hair has started to escape whatever product he uses to keep it rakishly disheveled and inches towards actually disheveled, like maybe he’s been running his hand through it, and he’s got a wide-wild look in his eyes that veers unusually close to panic.

So, clearly not okay then.

“No,” Eliot says. “My college roommate is getting married and I’m supposed to bring someone to the wedding.”

This definitely seems to fall closer to the fashion emergency side of things. Quentin scratches at his chin. “Couldn’t you just… not go?”

Eliot’s mouth curls like he’s said something particularly gauche. Quentin, who has a lifetime’s worth of experience saying the wrong thing, shrugs a little. If it were him, he’d just bow out. Make up an excuse. Forget to respond to the invitation altogether. Path of least resistance and all that.

Not Eliot, though. He scoffs. “And admit social defeat? Not a chance.”

"It’s a wedding, El, I don’t think they give out prizes.”

“It’s practically a college reunion. Everyone will be there with their jobs and their partners and their, I don’t know, tiny screaming children, showing off how successful they are. I can’t  _not_  go.”

“Take Margo then.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

Eliot sighs, like it’s the greatest tragedy in the world. “She’s in Italy for the next three weeks. I need someone tomorrow. And I don’t mean that hyperbolically.”

“Okay, well.” He shrugs. “I’ll go.”

Eliot freezes, all that nervous energy suddenly directed at Quentin, who feels suddenly not unlike a bug under a magnifying glass. “You?”

“I mean.” Quentin brushes his hair out of his face and wishes he had something to do with his hands. His shoulders brace up against his ears. “If you want?”

“You would... come to the wedding with me.” He says it carefully, like he’s feeling out the words, or maybe like he’s afraid that if he says it too fast he’ll scare Quentin away.

“If you need someone to pretend to be your date for the day, I’ll do it.” Quentin tries for nonchalant, which is kind of difficult because Eliot’s being, like,  _weird_  about it. “It’s not like I’m doing anything.”

In fact, he and Julia had plans to marathon the entirety of that really bad ‘83  _Fillory_  miniseries, but it’ll still be there. 

“Pretend to be my date,” Eliot echoes. He blinks once, twice, a handful of times, and then everything smoothes away, disaster averted. His shoulders drop. “Okay then.”

And everything’s suddenly fine again. Quentin watches one of the second years sitting in the window seat sigh in relief.

That’s Q. Friendly neighborhood Eliot-wrangler.

“It’s tomorrow?”

“Mhm. Do you have a suit?”

He has the one he wore for his college graduation, but Eliot’s already shaking his head.

"Never mind. We’ll find you something.” He looks Quentin up and down with a sharp, critical eye, and Quentin thinks about how he hasn’t washed his hair in like, maybe a week because finals are just, y’know, like that, and also there’s a coffee stain on his sweater and this are the same jeans he’s been wearing for the past four days.

Well. Eliot’s seen him in worse. He shrugs. Eliot’s eyes flick back to his face.

“Right,” he says, and he claps his hands together, all action. “Okay. We’ll leave from here at noon.”

“Great,” says Quentin. “Uh, who’s your roommate anyways?”

“Oh. This guy named Ethan. He’s fine.”

Quentin doesn’t speak Eliot as well as Margo, but he’s pretty sure fine is halfway a compliment, so. “Cool,” he says. “Do you, um, need me for anything, or?”

“I’ll take care of it,” says Eliot, which means  _don’t you dare try to help me with this_ , so Quentin shrugs and grabs his bag again and clatters up the stairs to spend the rest of the night celebrating the end of the semester with the unmatched joy of not talking to anyone all evening and reading until he literally can’t keep his eyes open any more.

* * *

Eliot bangs on his door at ten am, sharp.

“Quentin!”

Quentin falls out of bed.

“Quentin, get up!”

He stumbles towards the door, blankets wrapped firmly around his shoulders, and tugs it open to find Eliot on the other side, already dressed in a crisp white shirt and snug slacks. The dark stripe of his tie loops over his shoulders, untied, and suspenders hang around his hips. He blinks down at Quentin for a moment, then his eyes crinkle into a smile.

“Good morning, sleepyhead.”

“You said we were leaving at noon,” Quentin complains, not awake enough to filter that out for a more traditional morning greeting. Eliot’s eyes crinkle a little more, and he reaches out to fix some of Quentin’s probably incredibly impressive bedhead.

“And we have so much to do between now and then. Go shower. I have your suit.”

Quentin, too tired to argue after reading till like––three, maybe? four? definitely late enough to be early again––makes a half-assed attempt to straighten his sheets and kicks some dirty laundry under the bed, then grabs his shower caddy and disappears to the bathroom. When he comes back, clean and clean-shaven and like, thirty percent more awake, Eliot has opened his windows and laid out a suit on his bed. A suit jacket hang from the top of the closet door, covering the mirror. Eliot is looking over his bookshelf, which is approximately eighty percent fantasy and twenty percent course books. Quentin clears his throat.

“Tada.”

Eliot starts. “Much better,” he declares, which Quentin would prickle at coming from anyone else but Eliot looks approving so instead he just feels kind of nice about it. “Shirt and slacks. Get dressed. Don’t touch the jacket.”

“Great, okay.”

They stare at each other for a minute, Quentin in his towel and Eliot halfway into formalwear. There’s something very comedic about it. Quentin’s too tired to pick out what.

“Oh,” Eliot says. “Yes. Fine. I’ll leave.”

He closes the door behind him. Quentin rolls his eyes, all fondness, and folds himself into the suit, then opens the door again. Eliot's standing in the hallway, scrolling through his phone.

“Hm,” he says when he sees Q. “Okay. Stand here. Don’t move.”

What follows is one of the strangest fittings of Quentin’s life, and also the first. He’s more of a “buy it off the rack and if it’s too big, oh well” sort of guy. Eliot, though, walks slow circles around him, hands twisting through subtle spells that lengthen hems, shorten cuffs, tweak collars, and do all sorts of other things Quentin doesn’t even know how to categorize. The upshot is this: by the time he’s done, the suit fits him perfectly.

It’s also a quarter to noon, so Quentin gets why Eliot got him up so early.

“What do you think?” Eliot asks as Quentin fixes the cufflinks Eliot’s included in this super weird personal episode of Queer Eye or whatever. “Glasses?”

“I don’t wear glasses, El.”

“They don’t need to know that.”

Quentin blinks, and sighs. “Do you want me to wear glasses?” It’s all so ridiculous he can’t help but be amused. Eliot taps a finger against his lips, thinking.

“Try these,” he says, producing a pair of round wire-frame spectacles he clearly had on hand specifically for this. Quentin takes them, settling them on his nose. They’re clear glass. He blinks at Eliot. Eliot blinks at him.

They both burst out laughing.

“No,” Eliot decides. “No, I think not.”

“Pretty sure I pull off the nerd look already.” Quentin hands them back. “Sorry.”

“I don’t know. You clean up pretty nice, Coldwater. Take a look.” He passes Quentin the jacket, and in the mirror hanging from his closet door he finally sees himself, neatly pressed into his perfect suit, hair tucked back behind his ears, looking mildly bemused and better than he’s probably ever looked before, or ever will again. Eliot definitely knows what he’s doing.

“Is this the part where you tell me there was a beautiful girl inside me all along?”

“And you just needed to see it for yourself,” Eliot agrees, stepping up to tie his bowtie. Quentin catches a nosefull of his aftershave or cologne or whatever-it-is and goes stock still, palms suddenly damp. Eliot, oblivious, gives his bowtie one last tug and smoothes his hand over Quentin’s shoulders. “Beautiful.”

He steps away, and Quentin remembers to breathe. “Thanks.”

“You’ll definitely make at  _least_  two thirds of the guest list jealous. Maybe more.”

"So is this on a points system, or––?”

"Tournament style,” Eliot returns, nudging Quentin out of the way so he can tie his tie, even though his own bedroom is like, right there. “Winner gets to keep the cake topper.”

“Mm. High stakes.”

“The highest,” Eliot says, suddenly not quite joking any more. The knot of his tie sits neatly at his throat, and he runs the trailing end through his fingers, a tiny nervous tic. “I–– Thank you for doing this.”

“What are friends for,” Quentin returns. Eliot peers at him.

“You’re like. Okay, right? I know social gatherings aren’t exactly your thing.”

That’s thoughtful of him. A little late in the game, but thoughtful. Quentin musters a smile. “I think I can stand around and be your arm candy for the day.  Just don’t ask me to like, remember anyone’s names.”

“I don't, and I knew them for years.” Eliot shrugs. “Anyway. You’re so much more than arm candy.”

Quentin is saved the ordeal of responding to that with anything besides a blushing stutter by Eliot’s phone, which goes off in his pocket. Eliot swears.

“Be downstairs in five,” he orders before sweeping out of the room, leaving Quentin feeling sort of windswept in his wake. He takes a breath, and a moment to give himself a last once-over. The guy in his mirror is nearly unrecognizable. He runs a hand through his hair, turns this way and that and watches his reflection match him. The slacks do shockingly good things for his ass, actually. He almost feels like he can do it, go be part of Eliot’s accoutrement for the day, something else to show off. It’s not such a bad way to spend the day, especially not if it helps a friend.

And if he’s had a, like,  _thing_  for Eliot ever since he realized that Eliot’s not going to drop him for being weird and a nerd and kind of a loser the first time someone way cooler and more put together comes along–– that Eliot actually seems to like him for being, well, _him_ –– well. It’s fine. Good friends could pretend to be each others boyfriends.

He’s handling it.

Then he grabs his stuff––phone, wallet, keys, is he missing anything? coat, right––and waits down in the common room.

Eliot appears at the top of the stairs, occupied with tucking something into his pocket, and Quentin has a moment to stare at him in open awe. It’s not like he doesn’t know Eliot is unfairly beautiful, but this is above and beyond. He’s wearing a vest, a splash of deep sea green that matches Quentin’s suspenders and bowtie, clearly indicating who goes with who, and his suit jacket hangs unbuttoned over his shoulders, perfectly cut. A single lock of hair falls in his eyes, that dedicated dishevelment that is nothing short of absolute precision.

Then he looks up and catches Quentin’s eye with a smile, and Quentin’s mouth goes dry.

So, maybe this is going to be a little more difficult than he thought.

“Hi,” he says when Eliot reaches him. “Are we ready to go?”

“I think so.” Eliot fusses with his bowtie again, even though Quentin knows it’s already straight. Quentin lets him fuss and doesn’t think too hard about how it puts him at a perfect height to watch his mouth purse in concentration. He shakes himself out of it. He knows Eliot is hot. It’s fine. He’s _handling_ it.

Eliot steps back and moves over to the door, hands folding and unfolding in a complicated series of gestures, and by the time he’s finished the crack around the door glows. That’s advanced magic, drawing portals. He forgets, sometimes, what a good Magician Eliot is.

Then he offers his arm out to Q. “Shall we?”

Quentin takes it, and they step through to the wedding.

* * *

Actually, what's on the other side isn’t the wedding. It’s a car park in the Bronx; apparently this is a pre-existing link. Like a bus stop, or a single-use Star Trek transporter. The wedding itself is about two hours northeast of here, in Connecticut.

“We can take the direct back,” Eliot assures him. “It’s always easier to get back.”

So they borrow a car.

"Isn’t this stealing?”

“They’re Brakebills property,” Eliot assures him, unlocking one with a spell. “The TA’s have access to them for ‘work.’ Mostly to take day trips. There’s this old commune just off the–– It doesn’t matter.”

“How’d you know about it?”

“Please. I know all Brakebills’ secrets. And I paid off a TA. Sort of.”

Quentin neither wants nor needs to know more. He climbs into the passenger side of a pristine Toyota that still has that new car smell and Eliot slides them into northbound traffic out of the city. They stop briefly for lunch at a Starbucks drive through, and then they’re on their way.

He dozes in spite of himself, lulled by the rumble of the car and Eliot humming along to the radio as they leave the clank and clatter of New York behind. With the timeslip it’s midwinter out here in the real world, the trees silvery and bare amidst the patchy snowdrifts, a newsprint world of grey-white-black. He stirs now and then, glimpses low walls of irregular stone and curling driveways splitting away from the narrow two-lane backroad they wind down, and then slips back to cotton-soft sleep.

They arrive just before three, pulling into a gravel parking lot. The crunching wakes Quentin, and the peers blearily out the window at one of those big old colonial-style buildings, all white columns and perfect symmetry.

“Are we here?” he asks, wiping away a spot of damp at the corner of his mouth. He’s been drooling, apparently. Gross.

Eliot, paying more attention to parking among a small sea of Lexuses and BMWs than Quentin rubbing sleep out of his eyes and squinting in the clear winter sunlight, hums a yes. The car goes still. Quentin rolls his neck out with a loud, satisfying pop.

“Alright,” he says, and looks at Eliot, who has gone a little pale. His darting eyes find Q.

“Right,” he agrees. Neither of them move.

“Hey,” Quentin says. “It’s gonna be fine.”

“I know.”

“You’re just as good as any of them.”

“I know.”

“I mean, you’re a fucking Magician. They’re just... a bunch of old college friends.”

“Acquaintances,” Eliot corrects him with a little of his usual spark. He takes a breath. “Fine. Let’s do this.” He unbuckles his seatbelt and steps out of the car, leaving Quentin to scramble after him, tugging on his coat against the icy Connecticut chill. The air smells cold-sharp, and it looks a little like it’s going to snow. Quentin’s nose immediately burns. He joins Eliot in front of the still-warm hood of the car.

“It’s just for today,” Quentin reminds him, and holds out a hand. Eliot looks at him, inscrutable, and takes it.

“Just today,” he agrees, and they crunch through the parking lot and up to the house.

A woman in a shocking floral dress greets them. “Hi! Names, please?”

“Eliot Waugh,” Eliot says smoothly, bringing Quentin’s hand up to rest just inside the crook of his elbow. “And guest.”

“Great! With the groom’s party? You’re on the right as you enter, sit anywhere. We’re so happy you could be here.”

She waves them down a hall to a big, open ballroom, set with neat rows of white chairs, all leading up to a wedding arch. A string quartet warms up in the corner, and strangers in a rainbow of formalwear congregate in ones and twos. Quentin presses a little closer to Eliot, overwhelmed by the space and the money.

“You weren’t kidding,” he mutters. “This is like a college reunion.”

Eliot looks down at him, both eyebrows raised in  _I told you so_. Across the room, someone calls his name, and both Quentin and Eliot turn toward a broad-shouldered man with a deep red tie.

“It can’t be,” he says as he approaches, all jovial and fake.

“Harry,” says Eliot, hand tightening on top of Quentin’s, so Quentin immediately dislikes him. “Great to see you.”

“You too,” says Harry with a broad smile. He holds a hand out, and Quentin has to extract himself so Eliot can shake it before Harry turns to him. He smiles, too many teeth. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

“Quentin,” says Eliot, ever the perfect host, “this is Harry. We went to school together, obviously. Harry, Quentin. My boyfriend.”

Quentin had thought he was ready for it. After all, part of the whole “pretending to be one’s date” ploy was, well, pretending to date. As it turns out, he had been wrong. 

“Hi,” says Quentin, letting Harry shake his hand as his brain gets stuck on  _boyfriend_. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too.” He lets go, looking between them. “So, how’d you meet? I’ve never know you to bring a date anywhere, Eliot.”

Eliot’s smile goes brittle around the edges, so Quentin steps in.

“Grad school,” he says. “Same program.”

“Really?” Instead of letting it go, Harry digs in deeper, either oblivious or willfully ignoring the awkwardness in the air. From the way he’s smiling Quentin kind of thinks it’s number two, which. What a dick. “Never would have pinned you for grad school, Waugh. What’s the program?”

“Uh,” says Quentin, realizing suddenly he doesn’t actually know what Eliot’s undergrad degree is in.

“History and criticism,” Eliot decides. “Multimedia. Quentin’s a writer.”

 _Am I?_  Quentin looks over at Eliot, who isn’t looking back at him, so he nods. “That’s the hope, anyways,” he lies through his teeth. Harry looks him over again, clearly reappraising and coming to some sort of decision. Quentin wonders if maybe they should have gone with the glasses after all.

“There you are.” A woman appears, dressed in a black dress that manages to both reach the floor and show off a lot of leg. She stands at Harry’s side until he raises an arm to drape it over her shoulder, a clear _she's mine_ vibe that mostly just makes Quentin uncomfortable. She smiles when she sees them, though. “Oh, Eliot. I didn’t know you would be here.”

“Michaela,” Eliot says. “Quentin, this is Michaela. Another old friend from school. Michaela, Quentin.”

“Boyfriend,” Harry says, like it’s unclear. Quentin shakes her hand and gets the same look of appraisal, then tucks his arm back around Eliot’s, bracing himself.

Eliot seems to like her, though. More than Harry, anyways.

“What are you up to, these days?”

“I have a gallery,” she says. “In New Haven. You should come visit. I have a few pieces I think you’d really like.”

“I’ll have to make time, then.”

“Eliot’s in grad school,” Harry tells Michaela, like it’s some slightly indecent secret. Michaela looks at him with newfound interest, and Eliot smiles an  _I’m afraid that’s true_  smile. Quentin has to marvel at how well he can play a crowd, even a crowd of two.

“Really?”

“I know,” Eliot says. “It’s not all boring, though. There’s Q, for one.” And he turns and, without a word of warning, kisses Quentin’s cheek, lips warm and dry. Quentin blushes.

“We’ll have to catch up properly,” Michaela decides in that way of old acquaintances, and Eliot tosses out an easy agreement that means it’s unlikely they’ll ever exchange more than Facebook friend requests, and they drift in separate directions.

“She could do so much better,” he mutters, and Quentin unwinds their arms to move towards the seating.

“Can I ask,” says Quentin quietly, “what did you actually like. Uh.”

“Study?”

“Yeah.”

They find a pair of unoccupied seats near the back and drop off their coats. Quentin fusses with his cufflinks until Eliot puts a hand over his wrists to make him stop.

“Art History.”

“Seriously?”

“Less reading, I thought.”

“And?”

“Well. I didn’t do it anyway.”

Quentin snorts. “I studied philosophy.”

“That explains so much.”

“Hey.”

Eliot laughs and sits next to him, pulling out his phone. Quentin does the same. He’s got a trio of texts from Julia confirming that he’ll be visiting her later in the week and absolutely no service, so he can’t text her back. He slips his phone back away and looks at Eliot, profile sharp and regal as he scrolls through something on his phone.

“Hey, um.”

Eliot looks up. “Hm?”

“Just–– with the whole, uh, this.” He waves a hand between the two of them, and Eliot’s eyebrow cocks. “How, like. What’s the line? Like with the, uh. Kissing thing.”

Eliot blinks a couple of times, then looks slightly chagrined. “Sorry. Was that–– I can not, if you’d rather. I just. Fucking hate Harry.”

“No,” Quentin assures him, wondering what the story is there and feeling awkward about prying. “No, it’s okay, I was just. Surprised.”

“Okay,” Eliot says carefully. “So... that was okay?”

“Uh. Yeah.” Quentin considers, and tries to ignore the way his heartbeat has picked up. “I mean, making out might be a little much but we can keep it. Y’know.”

“Chaste?” Eliot asks, wiggling his eyebrows, which is stupid enough that Quentin has to laugh, quiet and huffing. “I’ll protect your dignity, don’t you worry, little Q.”

“Wow,” Quentin says dryly. “Thanks.”

Eliot kisses his cheek again, grinning, and Quentin shoves at him, feeling bubbly and light.

“So,” he says, “Harry bad. Michaela... okay?”

Eliot hums. “Terrifyingly competent, really. I think she might have been class president of the student government? I was sort of... done, by the time senior year rolled around.”

Quentin can imagine that, Eliot bored, scraping out the end of his degree, far more enamored with the world outside than the cloying bubble of a college campus. 

“I don’t even know who our student body president was,” Quentin says. Mostly because there had been like, thousands of students and Quentin had barely managed to keep up with James and Julia but still. It’s the thought that counts.

The music of the quartet rises suddenly, drawing out a handful of chords as they finish their warmup, and immediately the energy of the room shifts, everyone finding their seats. An elderly couple settles next to Quentin, smiling warm, wrinkled smiles. Eliot sits up straighter, neck craning to look.

“There he is,” he mutters, and Quentin can see the man stepping out of a side door, dark skin and dark hair and dark suit, clearly nervous and still smiling. He takes his place at the end of the aisle as other players appear, priest and groomsmen and, like, other members of the wedding party. Quentin doesn’t know what they’re called, or what they’re doing, or how they know what to do and where to go, but he’s like, as far removed from it all as he could possibly be while sitting in the same room so it hardly matters.

The quartet breaks into familiar strains of music, and that one Quentin knows. He twists around, as does everyone else in the room, as the bride walks down the aisle.

It’s weird, weddings. Like, he’s always found them weird. Maybe it’s a being a child of a broken home or whatever. He gets it in theory, friend and family and promising to love someone for forever, basically, but he can’t... It just seems overwhelming, how much you’d have to love someone to get up in front of a room full of people and proclaim it for everyone to hear. Kind of terrifying, really.

All this to say, he starts tearing up about halfway through the ceremony and keeps wiping his eyes with the back of his hand until Eliot takes pity on him and passes him his handkerchief.

“Really?” he asks as he does so, halfway through a quote about the bravery it takes to love someone daily.

“Shut up,” Quentin mutters, and takes the handkerchief.

After the ceremony the happy couple runs down the aisle in a shower of rice––which, where does it even come from, and who’s going to clean it up––and there’s some more milling around as the guests make their way from the big room on this side of the house to the big room across the foyer, where tables have been set up. Quentin is introduced to a dozen new people whose name he forgets immediately. Eliot laces their fingers together and talks circles around people while Quentin mostly just nods along. Apparently he’s a writer with a book deal in the works, a hobbyist antiques repairman, and volunteers at an animal shelter in his free time. Eliot’s very proud of him.

Quentin wonders if this says more about Eliot or the people Eliot used to go to college with, and is inclined to think the latter.

“Antiques?” he asks when Eliot pulls out his chair. They’re seated with a trio of other young couples, only one of whom is here already and deep in a whispered argument. “Really?”

“You fix stuff,” Eliot shrugs, unbuttoning his jacket and sitting next to him. “It’s close enough. I’m just editing out the... details.”

“Details,” says Quentin. “Right.”

“You should be enjoying this more,” Eliot tells him. “You could be anyone, just for today.”

“Apparently I’m your very talented, well-rounded, animal-loving boyfriend.”

“And I’m so lucky to have scooped you up.”

Quentin snorts and sets his napkin in his lap. “How are we doing on the competition front?”

“Definitely pulling ahead. Did you see Crystal’s face when she met you?”

Quentin can’t remember which one was Crystal. “The blonde?”

“Redhead.”

“Oh.” She had looked a little furious. Or, a lot furious. “What’s her deal?”

“I might have slept with her boyfriend. Mm. A few of her boyfriends.”

“Jesus, Eliot.”

“In my defense, at least one of them was gay.”

“Does that make it better?”

“Probably not.”

The conversation is interrupted by the arrival of the rest of the table. A woman named Beth sits next to Quentin, clearly pregnant, with her partner, a rosy-cheeked woman named Colleen. On Eliot’s other side they’re joined by Sarah and Benjamin, both from Eliot’s alma mater but from vastly different social circles. They exchange the same basic pleasantries and seem content to keep to themselves. The arguing couple across the table keeps on arguing.

“Don’t you just love weddings,” asks Beth, looking kind of exhausted, and Quentin laughs.

“I don’t know anyone here,” he admits. “I’m just here with my boyfriend.”

He says it mostly for the little thrill he gets. Beth sighs.

“Thank God,” she says. “Another outsider. If we stick together, maybe they’ll stop asking me the same three questions.”

“There now,” says Eliot over Quentin’s shoulder. “You might miss out on the unexpected fourth question.”

“As long as it’s not about the baby.”

“How about: have you ever seen a dress as ugly as the one the groom’s mother is wearing?”

“ _Eliot_ ,” protests Quentin. Beth laughs.

There are more speeches before the meal, but they’re mostly toasts, so they get to drink, which makes the whole thing more bearable. By the time they start bringing the food out Quentin’s leaning towards happily buzzed. He’s not the only one; except for Beth, the whole of the table gets more, well, social. Eliot unwinds too, just a little.

Still, he also eats with his hand intermittently slung over the back of Quentin’s chair and resting on Quentin’s knee, like  _look at us, look at him, he’s mine_ , which is a little strange at first but nice too, and Quentin finds himself leaning into it as the dinner progresses and the wine flows more freely. By the time the music starts, he’s almost at ease, which is saying a lot, given that it's him. The bride and groom share a dance, and then other couples start filtering out onto the dance floor. Eliot looks at Quentin.

“No,” Quentin says.

“Boyfriends dance.”

“I don’t.”

“Come on, Q. Just the one. For them.”

Which–– Right. Appearances. Dinner passed so easily he almost forgot. But he’s here for a reason, so he lets Eliot tug him up out of his chair and out onto the dance floor. Eliot’s hand settles against the small of his back, the other one curling around his fingers, and Quentin awkwardly places a hand on his shoulder, then wraps it more firmly around him as Eliot pulls him closer. It’s... nice

“Happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” Eliot deadpans in his ear, hand splayed against his back. He sighs, almost entirely for show, and the way Eliot breathes out a laugh against his temple. Eliot shifts his hand a little lower, pulls him a little closer, and Quentin sways tucked up against him as Eliot leads them in a slow spiral around the floor. He knows, rationally, it’s for the benefit of everyone watching, but he feels safe here, with Eliot. Like it could be real, just for the moment.

And if he’s got to make it through one dance, well, the least he can do is enjoy it.

When song ends in a smattering of applause, Eliot smiles down at him. “See?” he says. “Was that so bad?”

“No,” Quentin says. He can’t even manage something wry and quippy; he’s too busy standing in the circle of Eliot’s arms and holding on to the shreds of what this might be like if they weren’t pretending. He’d kiss Eliot now, he thinks, soft and smiling.

The music’s ended, and they’re still standing there, and––

“Hey,” says one of the college contingent, Brandon or Bradley or something. “Eliot! We’re going out back to smoke, coming?”

“Go ahead,” says Quentin, stepping away. “Go on, dazzle them.”

But Eliot hesitates. “Q––”

“It’s really okay.” He means it too; he smiles to prove it.

Eliot gives him a last, searching look, then kisses his cheek, easy and quick like he might kiss Margo, and that could be real Quentin thinks; he could mean that as one friend to another.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he says.

“You’re my ride,” Quentin reminds him, and he waves Eliot off to see his... friends? Acquaintances? Bitter enemies?

Whatever it is, he hopes they have fun. Quentin, for his part, goes in search of a bathroom and runs almost directly into Ethan out in the back hall.

“Oh,” says Quentin when they both right themselves. “Hi, um. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” He’s got a sweet smile. “You’re here with Eliot, right?”

“Yeah. I’m Quentin.” And he holds out his hand, which Ethan shakes firmly.

“Thanks for coming. Hope you’re not feeling too out of place.”

“I’d feel out of place anywhere,” Quentin replies, then winces. “Sorry, I didn’t mean–– It was a lovely ceremony.”

Ethan laughs easily. Quentin gets why Eliot likes him. “No worries. I get it. Big events like this, it’s always a little weird.”

“Yeah,” Quentin agrees, relieved. “Weird to see so many people who knew El back before I did, I guess.”

"Yeah, I bet. It’s good to see him so settled, y’know? He’s a great guy, but I worry for him sometimes.”

Quentin knows what that’s like. From here he can just see a small knot of people smoking on the back porch, and Eliot’s familiar curls among them. He can’t see Q looking, but Ethan can, and his expression goes sort of gentle.

“He must really like you,” Ethan says. “I’ve never seen him like this before.”

"What, social?”

"Happy.”

“Oh.”

Ethan smiles at him, then starts to inch past. “Well, I should probably get back to the missus...” His face goes bright as he says it, which is sweet. Quentin trips out of his way.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, of course. Um, congratulations, again. Really nice to meet you.”

“You too, Quentin,” he says, and then he’s gone, and Quentin ducks into the bathroom to slash some water on his face. He fixes his expression in the mirror into something easy, uncaring, and then scrunches it all up like wiping a chalkboard or shaking an etch-a-sketch. It's just for today, he reminds himself. Just tonight, really. He can keep it together for tonight.

He walks right out into an argument.

“You’re so fucking transparent,” Harry is saying, standing with back to Quentin, blocking the hall. “Coming back here, showing off like you made it, like you have something to show for it. We all know what you really are.”

“Do we, now?” says the other half of this argument, who, Quentin realizes, is Eliot. Quentin freezes, trapped. “What is that?”

“Nobody. Some dumb hick who got lucky enough to make it on the backs of other people who worked harder and deserved it more. Your pretty boy know what you’re actually like, under all the glam?”

“Your eloquence is, as always, astounding.”

“Did you pay him? I’ll admit he doesn’t look much like a rent boy, but I guess they come in all shapes and sizes these days. Do you have to pay extra for the nervy ones?”

“Your inability to fuck someone you’re not paying isn’t my problem, Harry.”

"Michaela and I are  _engaged_ , in case you missed it––”

“And why she’s stooped to join you in the gutter is something I will never understand. Is it the trust fund? I’m a dumb hick, so you’ll forgive me if I don’t understand.”

“Oh, haha, funny.”

“Well, someone had to have some wit around here and it’s clearly not going to be you.”

“Seriously, Waugh, where did you find him? Didn’t think loser nerd was your type.”

“Because you’d know all about my type.”

“Cheap, single use, easy. What, is he just  _really_  good in bed? Or is this a pity thing?” Harry pauses. “Did you bring him here to show him a good time before you––”

The rest of the sentence gets lost in Eliot’s fist, because Eliot punches him. He follows it up with a knee to the delicate bits, and his fingers are snapping out halfway through a spell when Quentin barks, “Eliot!”

He freezes. Harry, doubled over, groans.

"Quentin," says Eliot, and Q is–– a riot of emotions, really, barely knows where to start.

What he does know is that he's not having this conversation  _here._

“If you’ll excuse us,” he bites out icily, and he wraps one hand around Eliot’s wrist to drag him away from Harry. He doesn’t let go until they’re back in the ballroom, tucked up against the back wall with the music drowning out their conversation from prying ears. Only then does he whirl on Eliot, who still has the afterimage of his sneer printed across his face.

“Okay,” he says. “ _What_  is your problem?”

“I don’t have a  _problem_ ––”

“Listen, El, I’m happy to be your, like, arm candy or whatever and I’m here to support you through this... I don’t know, nightmarish pseudo reunion thing, but I’m not going to stand by and watch you  _curse_  some guy. That’s not what I signed up for.”

Eliot stares at him in shock, and then–– deflates. “Sorry,” he mutters.

“You think?”

Eliot gives him the edge of a nasty look, but his heart’s not in it. He leans back against the wall. Quentin sighs.

“What’s up? Talk to me.”

Eliot stares out at the room, stubbornly not meeting his eyes. The song changes to something from like, his middle school days and he feels his foot start to tap in some sort of Pavlovian response. He makes it stop, still watching Eliot.

“He was being mean to you.”

“Lots of people are mean to me, El. I’m an easy target.”

“You shouldn’t let them.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s just for today. I don’t care what they’re saying about me, I care about  _you_. And clearly you have a problem with something here, so––” He holds out his arms. “What’s up?”

Eliot presses his lips together, tight and tense and unhappy, arms folded across his chest. Quentin, not sure what to do with his hands, gently touches his elbow. Eliot shudders at the contact, and unwinds, just a little.

“I wasn’t always... this.”

“I sort of figured that.” He wouldn’t be trying so hard if he weren’t defending of the carefully produced work of art and culture that was Eliot Waugh.

Eliot still won’t look at him. Or, he will, but his eyes keep sliding away, too big and desperate. Quentin carefully brushes his thumb against the smooth fabric at his elbow, patient. Eliot takes a deep breath.

“I...” He pauses, looking truly nauseous. “I’m from Indiana. I grew up on a farm.”

“Okay?”

“Becoming me took… a long time, and a lot of effort, and these people––“ he waves a hand out at the house around them–– “saw… some of that. I mean, who doesn’t discover themself in college, right?”

“Eliot.” Quentin’s face is all soft, folded up. Eliot sighs, a whole body shrug.

“I just. I had to come here and prove to them that I, I don’t know. Figured it all out. I’m making it work. And you’re... here, pretending for me, even though I know you hate these sorts of things, and that’s still not––” He takes a deep breath and huffs it out, short and angry. “Some of them are never going to see me for anything more than what I used to be.”

Quentin stares up at him, feeling his eyebrows pull into something soft, aching. Eliot takes another breath and then looks at him, delicate as spun glass. Quentin smiles just a little.

“Fuck them, El,” he says, and Eliot laughs, brittle. His arms unfold enough that Quentin’s less cupping his elbow and more holding him by the arm, holding his attention. “Fuck them and fuck what they think of you, or of me. You don’t have to be some, I don’t know, made up wunderkind with the perfect boyfriend to prove you’re more than you were. You’re that anyways. You can be a talented Magician with a loser nerd boyfriend and be just as impressive, El. You don’t need anything from them.”

“Ugh,” says Eliot. “You should like a bad teen romcom.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes knowing yourself  _is_  the answer.”

“Sounds miserable.” Then, “Did you say loser nerd boyfriend?”

Quentin’s face goes pink. It’s the wine. “I was just. You know. Making a point.”

“A point,” echoes Eliot. “Right. So not an offer.”

“I–– uh.”

“Because,” says Eliot, clearly warming to it, “If it were an offer, I would have to do something about it.”

“Yeah?” asks Quentin. “Like what?”

“Well.” Eliot tucks a loose lock of Quentin’s hair behind his ear, brushing his jaw as he goes, and Quentin’s brain sort of short circuits. “Probably something like this.”

Eliot kisses him, soft and sweet, and Quentin’s breath catches for a moment before he pushes himself up into it. Eliot’s hand moves from his jaw to cup the back of his neck, shifting them so he can deepen the kiss, sure and slow and just this side of filthy, and Quentin very nearly melts against him.

“That’s,” says Quentin when they pull apart, dazed. “Mm. You make a good point.”

“I know.”

“What happened to, uh, y’know. Keeping it chaste. Protecting my dignity.”

“Well,” says Eliot with a shrug. “I wasn’t sure if we were still pretending.”

“So, you.” Quentin frowns. It’s a little difficult to string words together at the moment, what with the way Eliot is smirking down at him. “You’re okay with. Not pretending.”

“I’m okay with not pretending,” Eliot agrees.

“Like. For tonight, or?”

Something in Eliot’s expression goes uncertain. “If you want.”

“If I want,” Quentin echoes. 

It’s funny, weddings. Having to stand up in front of a crowd, declare you love someone for forever. There’s something inspiring about that. Makes you want to be brave.

"How about long-term,” Quentin puts forward. “Could we try that, maybe?”

“You want to be my loser nerd boyfriend?”

"The loser and nerd are sort of a, uh, twenty-four seven thing. But–– I’d like to be your boyfriend. Yeah. I’d like that a lot.”

“Huh,” says Eliot. “Yeah, that would be. We can try that.”

“Okay. Cool.”

“Cool?”

“Yes,” Quentin says, a little defensive. Eliot’s smirking at him again. “You literally just punched a guy for me you’re definitely not allowed to talk.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

Quentin huffs, which is completely ruined by the smile splintering across his face when Eliot tugs him in to kiss him again, properly, not the slightest bit chaste at all.

"You know," hazards Quentin. "I'm pretty sure punching someone for your, uh, boyfriend means you definitely win the whole. Competition thing."

Eliot considers that. "You think?"

"I mean, I'd say so yeah."

"I feel like you might be biased."

"It's entirely possible." 

They stand there for a moment, wrapped up in each other. Then:

“So, since I already started a fight, what if I faked a proposal? You think that would shake things up?”

“No, Eliot, wait––” says Q, and Eliot’s still laughing when he drags him back to the dance floor.

**Author's Note:**

> you can also find me on [tumblr](http://impossibletruths.tumbr.com/)


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